Fraudulent Representation
by Lady Viola Delesseps
Summary: Sherlock and John are caught up in a particularly intriguing series of crimes- with the perpetrator very near home. Written with The Professor of time. He will be great one day- wouldn't you like to be able to say you knew him before he was famous?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, everyone! Viola here. So, this is a collaborative fic done through RP with the brilliant Professor of Time, which I hope you'll like. I have edited it a little for continuity, but it is all more or less simply our roleplay. He's the best RPer. Check out the Professor's fics as well, if you have time, they are wonderful and cinematographic (one of my favorite compliments which just happens to fit his lush style of writing)! Anyhow, on with the detective and his sidekick. The brilliance of John attribute to the Professor, the rubbing-everyone-the-wrong-way of Sherlock attribute to me :-) God bless, and be sure to let both of us know what you think! -Lady Viola**

Though the station bustled with humanity thronging here and there, all seeming to either be shouting to a significant other far away through their mobile or rattling on to a companion in a needlessly loud voice, one man sat silent and oblivious on a bench. His watch marked the time as 3:38, two minutes ahead of schedule. He mildly wondered if John would be true to his word in coming to fetch him as he sat, absorbed in his own thoughts.

A few short moments later, another man began bumping clumsily into the bustling crowd.

"Sorry- Sorry! Excuse me, have you seen a tall man in a coat, quiet, sort of-"

He was cut off by the stranger pointing to the south end of the station before hastily moving away, continuing his phone conversation.

"Thank you!" the man called out before starting toward the indicated direction.

Sherlock's quick gaze picked out the figure hurrying his way. Short, blond, walked with a limp... Most certainly him. Wondering more about him was not in his nature, since he knew all he needed to know already and could know basically everything else with a few long looks, but he was slightly curious about what sort of man would begin a flatshare with HIM. Especially since John Watson knew next to nothing about him at all. Perhaps it was better that way...

John quickly limped over to Sherlock, stopping a short distance away.

"Sherlock!" he called out. The strange detective continued to examine him, makng John feel like a bug under a microscope. "Are you ready?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock arose, and looked down at the shorter man. "Why are you early? There's no way you could have known the train's schedule unless you are just one of those overly punctual people. Either that or you've set your watch wrong. He peered at is own watch, and then cracked a brief grin. "Home then? Oh, actually, I need to stop by the morgue, unless you object."

John raised his brow at the odd request, but said nothing but a curt, "Alright," before falling in a lopsided step with Sherlock. "And for your information, I'm early because you're my flatmate. If anything happened to you, I'd be stuck with the rent." He smiled slightly at his own joke, then began chattering about his day to break the silence.

Sherlock seemed to not even hear John as he prattled on and on, instead looking out the window of the cab which they hired and clambered in to, his fingers idly going to and fro over the rough wool of his coat, his mind rebelling against the idleness into which it was forced. He hoped there would be someone fresh at the mortuary, preferably something sinister, something beyond the usual death-of-natural-causes.

He broke into John's monologue and said abruptly, "I am beginning to think of taking up smoking again. You're a doctor - what do you have to say? Nevermind, I know, but say it anyway. I need to argue with someone to keep me awake." He exhaled through his nose, sheer boredom tapping a headache into the base of his neck.

John was startled by the sudden admission, actually opening and closing his mouth silently. "Well, um, I wouldn't advise it- the things it can do to your health, after all, and how hard it is to quit- I used to smoke myself, stopped during the war-" At this, he began to subconsciously rub his knee, babbling about how hard it had been on him- "So no, I don't think-"

Sherlock grinned as they pulled into the Morgue's parking lot. "Oh. We're here," John stated, still surprised at Sherlock's revelation of something personal.

Leaping from the cab, Sherlock strode up the steps of the mortuary and yanked open one of the doors, mercifully holding it for John to amble through. "I thought soldiers began smoking in the service, not quit," he murmured. "Stress relief is never more needed than a man at war."

John limped past Sherlock, nodding in agreement. "Most of us did. One of my patients, however, started smoking much earlier. He died and I was asked to do an autopsy. His lungs were shrunken and black. It was one of the most disgusting things I had ever seen. That was early on in my service, though... I've seen worse by now." He halted in front of the double doors that led to the lab. "Well? Shall we?"

Sherlock regarded John dubiously as he described his experiences with autopsies. "Well, glad to know you won't be shocked," he said in a glib way, pushing through the doors and entering the lab. "Hello, Molly," he greeted the girl, hardly looking her direction. "Anyone new since Friday?"

Molly blushed and looked away, busying herself with her nails. "Wh-What? What do you-" She stopped when she saw the businesslike look on Sherlock's face. "Oh. Bodies. Yes, a few. Would you like to see them?" She looked at John, the blush fading slightly. "Who's your friend?"

"Retired army doctor, Afghanistan, new flat mate," Sherlock replied briskly. "But I haven't got all day, so who's the most intersting one?"

Molly walked to the doors, opening them and leading them to a gurney in the center of the room. "His name is Andrew Lewis. He's 24, and he was found face down in the Thames. But the interesting bit," she said as she lifted back the cover, "is his hands."

John glanced at the man's hands- or rather, hand. Andrew's left hand had been sawed off. On his wrist was a crudely tooled tattoo of a skull being stabbed. His right hand was a bloody mess. It was clear he had been subject to torture; each and every one of his fingernails had been ripped out, and several puncture wounds covered the raw flesh.

"Okay," John said quietly, "Never seen THAT before."

"How long ago was he brought in?" Sherlock asked. "Can't have been in the water for more than an hour- the blood is still fresh, and the skin doesn't show signs if bloating." He retrieved a tiny dish from his pocket and took a small sample of the blood, sniffing it as he did so. "That's not right," he muttered. "Prognosis, doctor?" A slight smile played around the edges of his mouth as he photographed the tattoo and proceeded to examine the victim's neck. "Oh- and Molly- what articles if clothing, if any? Describe exactly please, or better yet, show me."

"He was found about an hour ago," Molly replied. "They thought he'd only been in the water for twenty minutes or so."

John walked over to the body, beginning to examine it as Sherlock had instructed him.

"Well," he said, "He's obviously been tortured, look at his hand. You wouldn't get that from the kitchen." He frowned for a moment while he thought. "What confuses me," he continued after a moment, "Is how he died. It doesn't look like he lost enogh blood to die that way, and there doesn't seem to be another wound. What do YOU think?"

"Have you had a look at his lungs, Molly?" Sherlock asked. "John, really. Face down in the Thames and you can't think how he died. Do you ever get a headache from that level of ignorance? I would."

Molly piped up. "Actually, I haven't. Would you like me to?"

Sherlock compressed his lips. "Yes, please. Now, if you don't mind directing me to his clothing..." He looked quickly around the room and sighted them in a sodden pile upon the nearby examining table. "Here we are." He crossed the room in two quick strides and spread the wet garments out: a button-down shirt, a light jacket of polyurethane, trousers of an old-fashioned style two sizes too big for the body, socks, new, and -

"Shoes, does he have any shoes?" Sherlock called.

Molly replied calmly. "No, he was found without any. Why?"

John walked over to the detective, curious. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," Sherlock snapped.

Molly paled at his anger. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't think -"

"It is, quite possibly, the most important bit of information we have, other than the discovery of the missing hand..." He ran a hand over his mouth, eyeing the blood stains on the left cuff of the shirt. Narrowing his eyes, he looked closer. "He was not wearing this shirt when the hand was cut off - see?" He pointed. "The blood is drug down the entirity of the sleeve. And the trousers are clearly not his. No belt, either." A line appeared between his brows. "I suppose finding the hand is out of the question..." he mused.

"You think he was kidnapped?" John interrupted.

Sherlock slapped his hands together. "Finally! Clothing not his own, shoes probably contained some sort of compromise, either in time to put them back in after removing his original clothing, or mud, which gives everything away. John, see if I'm right about the lungs, you being a lung expert and all."He grabbed Molly by the shoulders and spun her around, saying:

"I'm going to phone Lestrade and tell him to have his team search the area where he was found. Once we have his original clothing, we can start arresting people." And he dashed out the door.

John began the autopsy with the help of Molly, reaching the lungs quickly. "Let's see what he has to say, then, shall we?"

Twenty minutes later, John was on the phone with Sherlock. "We found a good deal of water in his lungs, enough to confirm that he drowned. How's the search for his clothes?"

The wind whipping by the mouthpiece of the phone clamped to Sherlock's ear sent a wave of static crackles over the wireless. "Just where they should- rather, shouldn't be," Sherlock vociferated over the wind, managing to sound quite elated. "Have almost absolute proof that he was thrown from a ferry, or other boat of some kind. Getting intel on today's river traffic now."

"Getting intel- Where are you? On top of a boat?" John was confused by the detective. A man had been murdered, and yet he sounded ecstatic, as though he lived for it. Which, John supposed, he did. How else could he afford the rent? Sighing and shaking off the train of thought, he interrupted Sherlocks explanation of exactly why he was on the prow of a sailboat in the river.

"Should I meet you?" John asked.

"We're coming in in just a few minutes," Sherlock replied. "Lucky for us a recreational yachtsman with an expired tag agreed to exchange favors with the detective inspector. Meet me at the Waterloo Pier. Tell Molly not to disturb anything while you're gone." Then he hung up.

After relaying Sherlock's message to Molly, John found himself standing on the pier waiting. "Sherlock," he said as the detective approached, "Did you find anything?"

His brows were drawn together, his mouth pursed in thought, a far cry to his joyousness a mere ten minutes ago. "It doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Why would someone torture a man, then throw him from a boat? He clearly wasn't dead when he hit the water- why not kill him first? There has to be a particular reason they wanted him DROWNED..." Sherlock seemed to see John for the first time. "Oh, hello."

"Sherlock... About what you just said. Maybe they wanted to send a message?"

"Message..." Sherlock stared at John. "Message to whom? Scotland Yard? River Patrol? They would have no way of knowing who would pull him out, or even if they would." Suddenly his eyes lot up. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Stupid! He wasn't thrown from the boat at all..." Before John could say anything, Sherlock raced up toward the pier.

"Sher- Sherlock!" John cursed and began to chase after the odd detective. "What do you mean he wasn't thrown from the boat?!"

Sherlock ran along the sidewalk, halting and leaning his lanky frame far over the railing, peering into the river below. "He was thrown from the bridge. Nothing small enough was on the river today, and there are no gaps in the patrol. Brilliant..." He began inspecting the railing. "And we should be finding some blood about... here." He stopped short and squatted to peer at the tiny dark splotches on the pavement.

John gaped at him. "That's... That's absolutely amazing. How did you-?"

Sherlock lowered himself to his stomach on the asphalt, sniffing at the stains. "Cocaine. I knew it. Drugged, tortured, and thrown from a bridge. But who? Why?" He seemed unaware that he was still lying on the ground as he lost himself in thought. The roar of an approaching bus didn't seem to even penetrate his senses.

"Sherlock, the tattoo? Did you connect anything to it? It might have been a calling card of sorts."

Sherlock picked himself up just as the bus sped by, and regarded John with a strange look. "Did you photograph it?"

John pulled out his phone, tapping into his gallery and showing Sherlock. "You didn't?"

"I did, but I don't feel like getting my phone out, it's in my trouser pocket." He indicated that the huge problem was the presence of his overcoat.

Peering at the screen, Sherlock turned it upside down and sideways, but didn't seem to see what he wanted. "I didn't give it much attention. Do you think it's recent? Clearly a shoddy do-it-yourself kind of job."

"It certainly LOOKS recent, the skin around it is inflamed. See?" John pointed out the redness around the edges of the skull. "A shoddy, do-it-yourself job, yes- except that he appears to have been left handed. The right hand wasn't calloused in any way, like it hadn't been used as often, and his left arm was somewhat more muscular. That indicates the likelihood that he used his left arm more often. Surely you noticed?" John was surprised to think that he had noticed something before Sherlock.

"Left-handed... of course," he muttered. "Call a cab, we need to head back to the morgue. I want to look at his legs. By the way, how could you tell his right hand wasn't calloused if it was such a mess? Sorry, just wondering if you're as credible as you seem."

After the cab had arrived, John began to explain how he recognized the lack of callouses in the midst of the wounds. "If you look closely at his hand, you'll see the most obvious thing: the nails and stabs. There are cuts all across the hands, but they all appear to be recent. Now, look at his palms. Do you see where the skin looks a little darker? Look at my hands, they have the same marks. I suppose I drew on things I knew rather than completely diagnosing the situation," he said sheepishly.

Sherlock regarded the doctor with a curious expression on his face. "Very good," he said at last, "Except the tattoo still isn't explained. Think!" he exclaimed, causing their cabbie to jump, and look nervously back over his shoulder. Sherlock pressed his hands to his head and sat in silence for a moment before suddenly pulling out a soggy ticket stub from his pocket and passing it to John.

"He was supposed to be on this flight that left yesterday morning from Dublin. Something doesn't add up. According to police records he has no friends or relations. Nobody has no friends or relations, don't be idiotic.. Someone didn't want him on this flight.."

"Who was he?" John asked. "What did he do for a living?" He glanced at the soaked ticket before handing it back to Sherlock.

"That's why I want to have a look at his legs - cricket player. Found his phone in the pocket of his original clothing, and it was filled with pictures of Graeme Pollock, Brian Lara, and publicities of Sir Gary Sobers. All left-handed batsmen. He's was a student at Queen's, suspected to be there on scholarship, and the dates on his ticket correspond with the dates for the Dublin ODI no. 3409." Sherlock clambered from the cab and leapt up the steps to the morgue, still talking rapidly.

"The drugging may have something to do with that. It would look to be simply foul play in sports, but no, I think it was more. Think about what we have. Andrew Lewis, 24 years old, left-handed, death by drowning, clothing not his own. Not just drowning, first tortured, drugged - actually drugged, then tortured - thrown from the Waterloo Pier. Not in water more than 20 minutes before he's fished out and we find he planned to fly to Dublin, thus cricket player. Student, clearly, from his age, the only university offering cricket scholarships this late in the semester is Queen's. Both his parents died earlier this year, from records, no friends, colleagues Keiran Conaway, Sam Hartis, and Mitchell Lowe, from phone contacts."

Sherlock paused a moment to take a breath, and then concluded, examining the body closely, "Quick-thinking, if he's a batsman, but nervous temperament, look at his chewed lip. You can see he's depressed by his instep and had childhood health issues: appendectomy scar, tonsils removed. He's clearly trying to prove himself to someone, because records at Queen's indicate that his grades were steadily rising. He would have graduated in the spring. Now - who is he trying to impress? Once we know that, we can know to start looking for the murderer. I suspect they are one and the same."

"I see," John replied. "But before we do that..." He looked at Sherlock, eyes wide. "How in the WORLD did you know that?"

Sherlock stared at John. "Are you deaf? It's all so obvious! So who is he trying to impress... Not his father, he is dead, stastically more likely he is trying to impress a girl, but there are no girl's names in his contact list..." He trailed off. "Could Sam be a girl?"

A quick check revealed this to be a dead end. The picture on Sam Hartis' myspace account showed a young man with long black hair in a ponytail, but definitely a man. "Black Sam Bellamy..." Sherlock muttered. "53 ships, died at age 28. Let's have a look at that tattoo again."

John pulled out his cell again, pulling up the image. "Who's Black Sam Bellamy?" he inquired.

"Pirate, killed in the 1800's. But it could be some sort of revival..." Sherlock pressed his hands together in thought.

Just then, Molly walked in to the room. "Oh, you're back -" she began, but Sherlock cut her off. "Shut up. Thinking."

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Chapter 2

John walked over to Molly, resting his hand on her shoulder to comfort her. Leaning in, he whispered, "Is he always like this?"

Molly nodded, replying quietly, "Yes. As long as I've known him."

"Right." Sherlock stood to his feet, and pulled out his phone, texting Lestrade:

IS SAM HARTIS CLEAN? SH

"John, tell me the effects of cocaine in the blood system. Not that I don't know, I've got firsthand experience, but so Molly can hear it from an ordinary person and give us her opinion." He looked almost tolerantly in her direction.

"One of the things it can do is reduce oxygen intake by causing coronary vasoconstriction... Which would damage the respiratory system." John looked at Sherlock, astounded. "Is that why you wanted me to look at his lungs?"

He merely smiled. "Don't forget he was also dragged from the river, John. Still, this was not a one-time use." His phone emitted a noise, and he pulled it out. "Aha! Quite the record..." he mused, scrolling through the list of felonies under the name of Sam Hartis. "Irish. Should have known," he added.

John was confused. "Irish?" He asked. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Dublin cricket match, John, don't be stupid!" Sherlock exploded. "But something isn't matching up, still... We should be hearing about some seemingly unrelated nest of crime about now, that will hold all the answers."

"Ah. Seemingly unrelated crimes. You're making MUCH more sense than usual, Sherlock." John looked at the detective. He never knew what was going on inside that man's head; He was a conundrum, a mystery worthy of... well, Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock, how do you know all these things? It's like you do nothing but think about the next murder."

Sherlock looked at him like he'd suddenly grown two heads. "You're just now getting that? I live for when something interesting happens. It's hardly my fault everyone else is content to live a normal existence."

John chuckled at his response. "I suppose it's got to be difficult, being so much smarter than-" John's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, eyes widening as he read the message. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "You may want to see this."

"What is it?" he demanded, nearly tripping over Molly in an attempt to instantly be at John's side. "What does it say?"

John held out the phone for Sherlock to read. "Sam was just found murdered in an alleyway. With his hand chopped off. And I'll give you two guesses as to what was on his wrist."

"Tatoo," Sherlock breathed. "Who is that from? This is getting better and better!" Molly looked appalled.

John spoke, unsure: "It's from an unknown number. Maybe the Yard could trace it back?"

"They're too slow, let me try." Sherlock examined the number for a long moment, series of numerals seeming to hover before his vision. "Mobile, obviously, text enabled. Area code 020, so it's local..." He trailed off. "Let me try running a trace from here." Sherlock typed the digits rapidly into his phone. "Molly, text me when Sam is brought in."

"Sherlock, what are we going to do now?"

"Hit- Keiran Conaway!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Current location, 221B-" He broke off and burst out the door.

John ran after the retreating detective. "SHERLOCK!" He yelled, "Why are they at our flat?!"

Sherlock sprinted through the streets of London, oblivious to the angry honks of drivers and the shocked looks of overturned pedestrians. The morgue was only a few blocks away from Baker St, so it was no great distance, but the blood pounded in his ears as he reached the flat and burst open the door, clattering up the stairs and barging in.

He saw no one. Racing back down the stairs, Sherlock burst through to Mrs. Hudson's door. She stood, looking alarmed.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" But he was staring at the teenager behind her at the table calmly dipping Oreos in milk. "Oh- this is my nephew. He's here staying in London for the weekend," she explained. "Keiran, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

John burst in behind him, breathing hard from the sprint. "Sherlo-" He stopped. "Who is he?" He asked, looking confusedly at the teen.

The boy rose and stuck out his hand, swallowing a mouthful of cookie and pocketing his phone in a significant gesture.

"Keiran Conway. She's my aunt." He tilted his head toward Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was eying the boy narrowly, already reaching several conclusions. Keiran had an unnerving way of staring out from under his mop of strawberry hair and he favored John with a toothy grin.

John looked at Sherlock. "What do you think?" He was confused. Was the teen the killer? Or was he just a bystander?

"I'm terribly sorry for bursting in on you like this, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with great aplomb. "The fact is, I was just coming back from Devon for the weekend and wanted to pop in and say that... I'm back." He smiled briefly. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got to be off." He drug John from the room by the sleeve.

"Phone Lestrade," he hissed once they were safely in the corridor. "Tell him to send his least irritating men to Baker Street. I'm going to the bank."

John complied, still confused, as he left the flat.

"Lestrade, Sherlock wants your least irritating men to 221b Baker street as soon as possible. There may be a criminal there."

"There IS a criminal there," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he waited to hail a cab. "Coming?"

"There's a criminal there." John hung up and followed Sherlock. "Where are we going now?"

"The bank, obviously." Sherlock yanked open the cab door and ducked into the roomy backseat. "This is going to be a disaster for their record keeping. It was about time, really."

John spoke up. "What do you mean by that?"

"Don't you see? Piracy being revived, but not of goods. Hands missing? What's on a hand? Think, John!" Sherlock gestured passionately. "Thumbs. Thumbprints. Clothing being switched, canceling matches and other registered events... Identity theft. It's brilliant!" The cabbie regarded them in the rearview mirror like they had lost their minds.

John gasped. "Oh my..." He looked at the cabbie. "Drive faster!"

"Hold your horses, I can't break the law," the cabbie retorted. "You don't think everyone says that to me? Golly..."

Sherlock, however, seemed oddly calm, his hands pressed together beneath his nose, eyes closed in thought. A tiny smile played over his features, as if he were very pleased with himself.

"Sherlock," John whispered, "How did you know?"

"I am surprised I didn't figure it out sooner," he mumbled, eyes still closed. "But we're not through. We can't prove the Keiran Conaway doesn't have accomplices in this, and we need to discover what his motives are in killing people secretly to assume their identity... Poor Mrs. Hudson," he chuckled. "What a nephew."

"Well, you do know what happened with her husband..."

Sherlock laughed again. "He was quite a character."

"Bank of England," the cabbie announced, and Sherlock said, "Wait here," jumping from the cab, and turning to John. "This won't take any time at all. Run in, tell them their entire data may be falsified, ask for copies of the prints of Andrew Lewis, Keiran Conaway (if he has an account), Sam Hartis, and oh - what was his name..." Sherlock thumbed through his phone.

John ran in and asked for the prints as Sherlock had requested. "Sherlock," he said as he came out of the bank, "I got the prints. What do we need them for?"

"To decorate with. What do you think? How on earth did you get them?" He stared at the ex army-doctor. "You don't have that kind of security clearance..." Sherlock mentally counted to ten before the scream of security sirens were heard. He grinned at John.

"You're rubbing off on me, Sherlock." John grinned back and began to run. "Back to Baker Street?"

"We've got a cab!" Sherlock called after him, laughing and ducking within. "We're not on the run from the law yet!"

John doubled back and grinned at the detective. "What are we going to do when we get there? Arrest him?"

"Oh, don't be silly. I can't arrest anyone- can you? Didn't think so. No, we try to kick Lestrade and his team out as quickly as possible, and then we start examining these prints." Sherlock watched as the cabbie expertly reversed into the flow of traffic and sped them on their way.

They reached 221 to an interesting sight; Ms. Hudson attempting to keep police out of the flat. "Sherlock, how do we get them to leave?"

Sherlock, ignoring John, leapt from the cab, the driver protesting he still hadn't been paid.

"What's going on?" he shouted over thr hubbub, pushing his way through to the door.

"Sherlock! What should we do?" John asked, ignoring the cabbie's request of payment.

"Calm down, John." Sherlock placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a slight pressure. "Lestrade!" Sherlock hurried over to the Detective Inspector, and demanded, "What is going on? Did you go inside?"

"I did, but as soon as Mrs. Hudson opened the door, the kid bolted past us and took off running. I sent several men after him, but he disappeared."

Sherlock cursed under his breath. "When are you going to learn not to be such fools?"

Lestrade continued, "I couldn't very well give the order to shoot, nothing's been proven. Mrs. Hudson has been so upset that she won't let anyone in. Says it's illegal without a warrant, and that we're mistaken about her nephew being suspect."

John walked over to a frantic Ms. Hudson, speaking to her quietly. "Ms. Hudson, your nephew is a suspect. We need you to let us in. Please."

Mrs. Hudson covered her face, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, make them go away, John," she sniffled. "Keiran is a good boy, and I don't know what -"

"He's not a good boy, he's been implicated in a piracy scandal, and probably is more closely involved than anyone could imagine. Now, please stop making yourself ridiculous and open the door." Sherlock was suddenly at John's side.

"Sherlock! Her nephew is a suspect in a police investigation! Don't be so rough!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Rough?" Sherlock looked confused. "It's true. And we don't have time to be polite."

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson allowed him to push open the door, and he ordered John, "Tell Lestrade to get his idiot police on the case. And don't disturb me while I examine these prints."

"Oi! You there! You still owe me one pound sixty!" the cabbie shouted from the curb.

John ignored the cabbie once again as he ran over to Lestrade and told him Sherlock's message.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered as his phone emitted a sound. Pulling it from his pocket he read THEY'VE JUST BROUGHT SAM IN, SHERLOCK IF YOU'RE WANTING TO HAVE A LOOK. HE'S PRETTY BAD THOUGH BUT IT WON'T BOTHER YOU XX MOLLY

"Sherlock, what was that?"

"Text- they've got Sam Hartis' body at the mortuary. Do you want to go?" Sherlock rifled in his pocket before pulling out a two-pound note and hurrying it down to the cabbie, who huffed and drove away.

John nodded.

"Well, you go then, I'm staying," Sherlock said, entering their flat and removing his coat and scarf, hanging them within the closet. "Let's see here..." He pulled the prints from the tiny paper envelopes in which they were sheathed, and seated himself at the kitchen table.

"Molly!" John yelled as he entered the morgue. The short brunette poked her head out from behind one of the trolleys of equipment.

"Oh, hello, John. Sherlock didn't come?"

John shook his head and walked towards her, reaching the body she had been examining and looking down. "Sam Hartis?"

Molly nodded. "What is this all about?" she asked, her voice holding the slightest of quavers- and that was saying a lot for someone who did postmortems every day. "Is Sherlock sorting it out?"

John answered slowly. "This boy is a part of a drug ring and is a murder suspect. Which isn't nice. Sherlock is investigating at the moment, he's still at 221b."

Molly's eyes were wide. "I really thought that he'd come across everything by now. Never had a drug ring before, but then, if anyone would know about that it'd be Sherlock." Realizing what she'd said, Molly put a hand to her mouth. "Oh my - sorry," she managed. "I didn't mean for it to sound - that way..."

"No, I understand. I was surprised when I learned, but..." John looked around comically before leaning in and whispering "It doesn't really surprise me any more."

"Nothing about Sherlock should surprise me," Molly laughed nervously. "But it still does."

She twisted her hands in silence as John examined Sam's body, when suddenly her phone began a jaunty tune. Pulling it out of the pocket of her lab coat, she saw a text from Sherlock. SHOW THIS TO JOHN, I DON'T HAVE HIS NUMBER. JUST RECEIVED THIS: WOT ESY SHU TSH RIYNIEI ETAON CSPSR TGLTEEE GTUOALY EHERTF. IS IT MILITARY CODE?

John glanced at it and smiled. "It's an interesting code..."

DON'T BE COMPLACENT the phone said, as if hearing John's words. ITS A GRID CIPHER.

John squinted, then asked for a pencil and paper.

"Why are you not getting these clues history repeats itself," John read off to Molly. "Send that to Sherlock."

Molly looked at John as she typed in confusion. "What does it mean?" She hit send, and regarded him with a furrowed brow. "You two haven't exchanged numbers yet?"

Her phone beeped again. GOOD FOR YOU, LESTRADE HAS MEN LOOKING HIGH AND LOWE.

'What does that mean?" she asked, biting her lip.

"I don't know," John said. He glanced at Molly and asked, "What do YOU think it is?"

Before Molly could answer her phone lit up again. LOWE. MARSHALL LOWE. IT WAS A JOKE. SH

Her eyes were wide. "Sherlock never makes jokes to me," she said quietly.

John chuckled. "You really like him, don't you."

Molly turned cherry red. "I never said that," she stammered. "Anyways, what should we do with this- erm-" She gestured toward Sam. "What do you need?"

"I want to know how he died. Have you done an autopsy?"

Molly shook her head. "I assumed the gunshot- back of the head." She pointed to the body. "But I took a blood sample as soon as he was brought in if you want to have a look. I haven't had a chance yet."

John nodded. "Show me."

Molly pushed open the door to the adjacent lab. "Sherlock tells me not to move his things, but it's not his lab," she laughed nervously, gesturing. "So it's under the scope now. Help yourself."

John glanced at the wound, noting the size and shape. "This was done by somebody with training. Possibly military," He said, turning to Molly. "Which means they might have government plants. Which could be disastrous. Text Sherlock and tell him what I just told you."

Nodding, Molly did as she was told. Just then the door burst open and Sherlock walked through, phone in hand. "Thank you, Molly," he said obsequiously, before putting a hand on John's shoulder. "Come on, then. Don't you want to be there when the killer walks into our trap?"

John nodded, grinning despite himself. "Where are we going?" he asked the detective.

''Marshall Lowe is under full police surveillance. We are making sure that nothing happens to him like it did to the other two, although it would be interesting to see if a third murder completed the cycle," Sherlock said, speaking quickly as they walked.

"So, to the police station?" John asked.

Sherlock stared at John as if he were completely mad. "Don't be ridiculous. What kind of criminal goes to a police station? No, to Marshall Lowe's house. It's rather near. I'll get us in without being shot at."

John chuckled at his mistake. "Right then. Lead on!"

The house looked normal, but that was a credit to Lestrade for his men being at least somewhat sequestered out of sight. Marshall Lowe had been informed of the surveillance, but any potential threat would come unawares. Sherlock communicated as much to John as they took shelter behind the shrubbery.

"Doesn't this just feel like a game kids would play?" he whispered, giving John a brief grin, before turning his attention to the street.

"I suppose so, watching a house and making sure a man isn't killed does seem rather childish," John deadpanned. "At least to you."

"No, I mean hiding in the bushes and giggling like idiots about it," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade hissed, "If you two are going to invade my crime scene, be mature about it."

Sherlock winked John and closed his mouth significantly.

John chuckled again at the angry DI. "Very well, Mr. Lestrade," he whispered.

"Hsh-" Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. "Look."

He nodded as two men crossing on the opposite side of the street stopped, one of them speaking in a low voice to the other. The first man shook his head, and started to walk on, but the other grabbed him by the arm.

"Who are they?" John asked Sherlock in a low voice.

"That one is a drunk - look at how he walks." Sherlock indicated with a nod. "The other is not his friend. Notice how he hasn't said his name yet."

John looked at Sherlock. "How do you ALWAYS know these things?"

"You have to observe," Sherlock said curtly. "Look at them."

The first man let out a raucous laugh. The other did not look amused, and ignored him, crossing the street toward the Lowe house.

John glanced at Sherlock. "I was just making sure you... um... Didn't make a mistake. Exactl- Hold on. Look." John nodded toward the two men.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. A few steps from the pavement that began the walk in front of Lowe's house, the man stopped, and pulled his phone from his pocket, peering at the brightly lit screen. Fortunately, it illuminated his face, and Sherlock took in his breath ever so quietly.

"What is it? Who is he?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock whispered. The man pecked one stroke on his phone's touchscreen with a flourish, and then looked up at the sky. Sherlock was analysing his every move, the muscles in his face almost twitching in eagerness.

John glanced down at his pocket. "Sherlock, my phone is-"

Sherlock snatched the device from John's hand and flung it away just as it detonated. The alarms in the hidden police cars went off all at once and the small explosion set the grass of the garden alight.

"Shut up!" Shetlock shouted at the sirens as Lestrade's men rushed toward the startled Moriarty. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, tumblling them out from the shrubbery and pulling John to his feet.

"Oh my... that was my sisters. Sherlock, that was my sister's. What am I going to tell her?" John got up and slowly walked toward the now crippled mobile device. It was sitting in the grass, smoldering slightly. The black case had melted off, revealing wires that had been molded together in the flames. "...My sister's..."

Sherlock could hardly contain his annoyance. "Hang the phone, that doesn't matter!" He shook John by the shoulders. "Are you alright?!"


	4. Chapter 4

John looked at the man, eyes dead with disappointment. "I'm fine," he said, "But you're buying me a new phone, Sherlock."

"No, our new friend will," Sherlock muttered, striding over to Lestrade, who was busy taking him into custody. "Oh, don't bother," Sherlock said, waving him off. The DI looked stunned.

"I think we need to talk," Sherlock mused, looking off down the dark road, but directing his comment toward Jim Moriarty. John trailed behind him, listening.

"I don't think so," Moriarty said, looking confused. "I don't think we've met, actually." His innocent look would have fooled anyone - anyone but Sherlock.

"No, not properly," Sherlock replied in a low voice. "But your reputation precedes you. It always does."

Turning on his heel, Sherlock suddenly grabbed John's arm. "Let's go."

"But, wait just a-" Lestrade protested. "You're not leaving?"

"Afraid we are." Sherlock gave John an insistent tug. "Come on."

John complied, confused. "Who was that, Sherlock?"

"Talk about something - anything," he muttered under his breath as they hurried down the dark street. "And loud enough for them to hear."

John, still not understanding, raised his voice and began to speak about his time in Afghanistan. "I had a friend, Luke Cartwright, who was shot in the leg three times before going down. I had to take them out, and he told me he still keeps them with him."

Sherlock was watching John with interest as he rambled - things he would never tell unless he were under duress. "That's good," he said at last. "They can't hear us anymore."

9John stopped talking about his time in the war and began questioning Sherlock again. "Who was that man?" he asked again.

"James Moriarty. The consulting criminal," Sherlock said quietly. "I wonder if Marshall Lowe has any idea what is going on. Lestrade will keep him alive, hopefully, that's the general idea at least." Sherlock didn't seem to want to say much more on the subject of Moriary as they turned their steps toward Baker Street.

John picked up on this and walked in comfortable silence up the stairs to their flat.

Plunging his hand into the pocket of his coat, Sherlock grumbled, "Blast, I ran out the door without a key. Mrs. Hudson will let us in." He raised the knocker and let it fall a few times, and then just stood there, his brow lowered in thought. All of the sudden he asked, "Are you cold?"

John shook his head. "No, why?"

"You're shaking," he responded point-blank. "Not from fear, because your pupils aren't dilated, and not from excitement, because you're clearly still upset about the phone. Not from cold - what then?" He regarded John with a long stare.

Just then, the door opened a crack, and Mrs. Hudson poked her head through. "Sherlock! John," she greeted. "Come in, what on earth is going on? Inspector Lestrade is on the news, and I was wondering if you'd blown yourselves up at last."

John and Sherlock walked inside the flat to see exactly what Ms. Hudson had described- Lestrade speaking on the television about a small explosion and a murder suspect.

"Sherlock," John said, "What should we do about the 'Consulting-Criminal'?"

"Nothing, for now, unless you have a brilliant idea," Sherlock said, giving him a not-in-front-of-our-landlady-look. "Well, we're off to bed, then, if you don't mind," Sherlock said to Mrs. Hudson who smiled with alacrity.

"Oh, of course-" she began, but he cut her off with:

"-Though, not as it sounded." He gave her a brief smile and exited the room, the clatter of his shoes on the stairs coming down the corridor.

John followed, chuckling slightly. "Sherlock, do you think she'll ever realize we aren't gay?"

Sherlock made no response to this, instead, swinging open the door and turning on the lights. "Bed is what I've fallen into the habit of saying. Meaning that I want to retire, but I'm not going to sleep." He hurried to the fridge and opening it, bending over slightly as he hunted.

John grinned, but soon stopped, noticing that his shaking was steadily getting worse. "Sherlock," he said, "Why am I shaking?"

Sherlock let the fridge close itself and walked over to where John was standing, still in the doorway. Putting both hands on his shoulders, Sherlock peered deeply into his eyes.

"You're a doctor, you tell me," he murmured, still staring, switching his gaze quickly from eye to eye.

"Well," John replied, "There are a few reasons. I could be traumatized, which I'm not, or in shock, which I'm not, or..." John paused, considering other options. His eyes suddenly widened. "Or I could have been-" He was cut off by a bout of violent coughing into his fist. After a moment, he took the hand away from his face; It was covered in blood. He collapsed on the floor.

Sherlock dove to catch John as he fell, but was not quick enough. His knees stung as he hit the carpet and slid. "John," he said loudly, shaking the man. "John, can you hear me? John? John-" Checking for a pulse, he found it feeble and erratic; Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, speeddialing Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson? Yes - phone for an ambulance, we need to get John to hospital. He's passed out, and -" He broke off, examining the blood that streaked John's inert hand. "Yes, just do it, thank - no, just - do it!" His voice escalated as he tossed the phone to the side and lowered his face to John's mouth - a tiny humid puff of air tickled his cheek.

"John," he began again. "John, can you hear me?"

"... y... Yeah, I can... hear you..." John's breathing was slowing down considerably. Sherlock was worried about his flat mate, one of the few true signs of emotion he had shown toward John since they had met. "Sher... lock, get an amb..." John's voice trailed off as his eyes closed.

Sherlock lowered his head, listening to John's heart to confirm that he was still alive. Lifting his head from the heat of John's chest, Sherlock leapt to his feet, hearing the sounds of footsteps. Mrs. Hudson stood in the open doorway, her hands pressed to her mouth.

"Oh, my -" she gasped. "What happened?"

"Don't know," Sherlock said, grabbing John under the arms and dragging him a few feet before giving up and kneeling again by his side. Sherlock took his wrist, feeling his pulse again, and was still sitting there when the medics arrived.

"I'm coming with him," he said with finality, and clambered alongside the stretcher into the back of the ambulance, his eyes not leaving John's face as they rushed through the London streets.

John slowly opened his eyes to a white ceiling and the smell of chemicals. "Sherlock?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Mhm. John." Sherlock sat up from the generic-looking chair and regarded him with a bleary gaze. Running a hand over his face and scrubbing his hands through his hair, Sherlock sighed again, looking more awake this time. "How are you feeling?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock's phone rang. MARSHALL LOWE SHOT, EN ROUTE TO HOSPITAL NOW. COME IF YOU CAN. -GREG

"Guess who is joining us?" he muttered, sitting forward, his elbows on his knees and repeating, "How are you feeling?"

John groaned, his head throbbing. "Like a bed of roses," he whispered. "You said someone's coming?" He struggled to sit up for a moment, eventually succeeding and looking through blurry eyes at The Detective.

"The thorned variety, I suspect," Sherlock grinned. "Yes - Lowe was shot, and they're bringing him here. Lestrade wants me to come as soon as he's stable. But -" He looked doubtfully at John who looked small and crumpled in the bed. "I don't really want to leave you. They still don't understand what happened."

John looked at Sherlock. "Go," he said in his still scratchy voice. "You know you live for your work. Go on."

"That's not entirely true..." Sherlock murmured. "Not anymore." But he left the room, nevertheless. As he stood, his phone fell from his pocket and was left lying on the chair. A moment after he left the room, it vibrated, and the screen lit up, displaying a text message.

John attempted to call him back into the room, to tell him that he had left the mobile, but his voice failed him, and before he had a chance to try again, Sherlock was gone, leaving one of the most personal items John had ever seen him use.

After a minute of debating, he moved slowly to the edge of the hospital bed, reaching for the phone. As he picked it up, it vibrated again. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA the phone said, and it was signed JM. The previous message was from an unknown number.

Sherlock barged back into the room as John was trying to replace the phone on the chair. His eyes narrowed. "What is it?" he said, crossing the room and snatching the mobile from John.

''A message from 'JM'," John replied slowly. "Is that Moriar-"

Sherlock cut him off quickly. "Not here. Not now." He shoved the phone in his pocket and pointed a finger. "Don't go anywhere." And he slammed out the door. A second later he was back. "-As if you could." Then he was gone.

[46 minutes later] "Yeah, I know that, but what I can't understand is why it didn't kill him," Lestrade was saying as they returned to John's room. "Hello, John. How are you?" he greeted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John grimaced as he shifted himself back into a sitting position. "Not great, inspector."

"Sorry to hear that," Lestrade folded his lips together. "But hopefully you'll mend soon enough."

"Yes, human bodies have a tendency to do that," Sherlock muttered, extending his phone and holding it toward John's face. "What do you think?"

Displayed was a photograph of yet another wrist bearing the sloppy impaled skull brand. "Lowe. Not dead, but what kind of assassin misses his mark like that? Flesh wound in the shoulder?"

"Are you serious...?" Lestrade whispered. "Now? He's hospitalized!"

John chuckled hoarsely at Sherlock's first remark; It was nice to hear some humour in his voice. As Sherlock extended the mobile toward John's face, He noted two things: The tattoo was much sloppier this time, as if done by a different person, or in a rush. And as for the second thing... "Sherlock, surely you noticed that that wound was on top of an old one? He has scar tissue around it. Did he have a hole in his clothes there?"

"Funny you ask. There- were none..." Lestrade began delicately, but Sherlock clarified.

"He was found stripped and shot in the alleyway next to his house." He looked significantly at the DI. "Are you ever going to listen to me?"

"Sherlock-" Lestrade protested, his voice rising.

John interrupted. "If someone knew to strip him before shooting him, they knew he had a wound there. Which means it was somebody he knew personally."

"Don't be silly. He wouldn't have had the wound before he was shot. What have they got you on?" He peered at the intravenous drip, and tweaked the tag. "They wanted to send a message - a warning, but this one they could not have dead. He's not a cricket-player, but he is left-handed. What's the common denominator..." Sherlock pursed his lips and turned in two circles, deep in thought, his eyes squeezed shut.

Lestrade stared. "Is he drunk again?"

"He's got a sort of... memory device. He's got a palace in there, with everything he knows stuffed in it." John looked at the inspector and smiled. "He's absolutely insane, I swear. But he's definitely the most intelligent man I have ever known."

Lestrade just nodded and said, "I think I'll leave you two... Donovan will be wondering where I am at."

"STOP ending sentences with prepositions!" Sherlock exploded. "Sorry," he recovered. "A little stressy. It's his fault." He gestured toward John. "Getting himself poisoned."

As soon as Lestrade left, Sherlock flopped back into the chair, staring at John. "Don't you see?" he whispered.

''See what?" John replied, slightly confused.

''Exactly." Sherlock would have gone on, but just then the door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson, who trundled in, exclaiming, "Oh, John, John, what has happened now?"

She hurried to him, clasping his hand ruefully. "We just heard."

But Sherlock said nothing, regarding with shock the mop-haired teenager accompanying her.

"It was poison," John replied. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Hudson."

"Good to see you, Kellen," Sherlock said in a strange voice.

"It's Keiran," the boy sulked. "I don't remember meeting you before."

"Mm. Well, here we are." He dropped his voice. "Are you bored to death? I am." Slowly, the boy nodded. "Excuse us. Lets go and get some air."

And handing the boy a cigarette, the two left the room, Mrs. Hudson staring after them.

John sighed. "I told him it's a bad idea to suck smoke into your lungs like that..."

Keiran looked at the Detective, apprehensive.

"Mr. Holmes," He said, "What do you want?"

"I think you know," Sherlock said, standing close to the boy as he lit up the cigarette, and inhaling deeply. "Or if you don't then I'll think you much duller than you look."


	5. Chapter 5

"You think I murdered him. Andrew Lewis."

"And if I did, what would you say?" Sherlock regarded him with a steady look.

Keiran laughed a little. "I'd call you an idiot. I didn't kill him. Even if I did, you wouldn't have evidence."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Sherlock held up a worn canvas wallet, and opened it, showing two student i.d.'s "Sam Hartis?" He flashed the picture. "Or Keiran Conaway?"

The teenager's eyes narrowed. "Give me that -"

Sherlock quickly held it out of reach. "So, when were you going to tell your lovely aunt that you are involved in an opportunistic revival of your uncle's shut down cartel, and are engaged in some very high-order identity theft with the Bank of England? Not till after you graduate, I suppose, and can go on to become a world-famous cricket player under the alibi of Andrew Lewis, which is rather convenient, considering your mother's maiden name WAS Lewis..." Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Pity though. You'll be clumsy until you learn to bat left-handed. And I happen to know what forcing an ambidextrous dominance can do to the brain... Worse than cocaine and nicotine..." Sherlock finished, a far-off look in his eye.

Keiran's eyes narrowed. "Where did you get that information?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Am I right?"

Keiran grunted and settled for gabbing a cigarette and lighting up.

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "You shouldn't smoke those, they're bad for your health..."

"You're one to talk," the boy shot back, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"So," Sherlock began. "Am I right?" His phone buzzed, and he silenced it through the pocket of his coat, watching Keiran closely, adding, "I'm not the Scotland Yard."

Keiran smiled at this. "No, but you work with them. I know all about you, Mr. Holmes. The great detective of the modern age, a master of deduction, the man without emotion. Why would I reveal myself to you?" He had a heroic lilt to his voice.

"You don't need to," Sherlock told the boy. "You already have." He spun on his heel, and returned indoors, leaving a very stunned teenager on the sidewalk.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock announced loudly, entering John's room again, "I think you need to take Keiran home. He struck me as looking a bit tired."

"Oh, poor boy. After the police scare he's been all off his feet," Mrs. Hudson fussed.

"Mm, I imagine so," Sherlock murmured.

John waited for Ms. Hudson to exit before speaking. "What happened?" he asked, curious as to why the encounter had been so short. "And I thought you weren't smoking anymore, Sherlock. I'm hardly your babysitter, I can't be there constantly. You need to-" He paused. "Oh gosh," he said, chuckling slightly. "We're like an old married couple." He began to laugh, harder and harder, finally falling back onto the bed in a fit of coughing.

Sherlock only looked slightly amused. "There really isn't any 'we' in that, it's just you overreacting," he said, but cracked a grin nevertheless. "Shut up, you'll bring the nurse running," he added. "I found out what I needed. He is, in fact, naturally left-handed though he writes with his right. That was the whole purpose." He ran his hands through his hair, and looked incredibly pleased with himself.

John, still chuckling from his humorous observation, looked at Sherlock. "And why, exactly, did we need to know if he was left handed?"

"To see what he's after." Sherlock patted his pocket, in which reposed Keiran's wallet. "And now we're sure he'll be coming back. Are they keeping you overnight?" he asked suddenly.

John nodded. "Yes, they said they would need to run a few more tests." He looked at Sherlock. "Will you be staying the night, or chasing after Keiran?"

"No need to chase him. He's staying downstairs of our flat and I still have his wallet, so I leave you to your own deductions." He flopped down into the chair again.

"Sherlock, how did you know he did it?" John asked. He still hadn't figured it out, and he was too tired to attempt deductions.

"Stuff in his wallet. Not absolute proof, of course, but not much of an alibi either. See-" He pulled out the flat canvas trifold and rifled through the contents. "Plane ticket, dated the day before the murder, so that's when he was coming here, ostensibly to see his aunt, but also to meet with Black Sam, upon whom things backfired, very literally. There's this-" Sherlock unfolded a sloppy sketch of the stabbed skull mark that had been branding this particular string of murders, "and finally, these." He showed a handful of bank receipts, bearing the information of transactions between all three accounts, Andrew Lewis, Sam Hartis, and Keiran Conaway. "A crime ring of underage identity thieves. Oh- and this." Sherlock waved before John's view a second plane ticket, paperclipped to Andrew Lewis' admission to the Dublin Cricket ODI no. 3409. "He's going to miss his flight," Sherlock smirked. "Do you see what's so extraordinary about this, aside from his - if you'll forgive my quoting- spectacular ignorance?"

John thought for a moment. "The fact that he didn't notice you picking his pocket?"

"Oh, you do a wonderful impression of an idiot. No." He launched himself up from the chair. "The fact that Marshal Lowe is still alive."

John nodded. "That is odd," he said. "You'd think he'd want him dead as well, no witnesses..." He looked up at the detective, who was opening the door leading to the hallway. "You can't just leave me here, Sherlock!" he said as he struggled to get out of the bed.

"Well, come on, then," Sherlock said as if it were obvious, but then wheeled, remembering suddenly. "Wait, wait. You can't go anywhere." He pushed John back down to the bed even as he expertly unhooked him from the various machines to which he was wired. "Now," he said, eying him with a smirk, completely freed. "I'm going to solve this case. Be back soon. Don't follow."

John watched open mouthed as Sherlock exited the room, before getting up and limping after the retreating detective, smiling.

"Marshall Lowe is a student at Queen's, incidentally, and professes no interest in cricket or drugs whatsoever. We'll see about that- I think he might be more in favor of them now that they're connected to his bloodstream. I know I would," Sherlock said off-handedly as they hurried down the hallway together. Sherlock glanced at the back view of John. "You realize you're walking about in a hospital gown?"

John glanced back and cursed. "I didn't see my clothes, quick, give me your coat!"

Chuckling, Sherlock draped his coat around John's shoulders as they rounded the corner to the intensive care ward. "Here we are," he said, pushing open the door, and letting them into Marshall's room. Marshall lay upon the bed, oxygen connected to his nose, and patches monitoring every possible vital sign pasted to his bare chest.

He opened his eyes at their entry. "Hello, Mr. Holmes," he managed, giving a wry smile. "Who is this?"

"John Watson. I'm a friend of his." John gave a small wave at the man in the hospital bed, Unsure of how to act. He felt as though he should be diagnosing him.

"Where is the Detective Inspector?" Marshall asked as Sherlock gestured for John to take the single chair in the room. "He went home, and told me to take over." Sherlock gave John a shut-up-and-pretend-he-really-did look. "So tell me about the gunman, the incident, anything you know."

John sat down in the chair, examining Marshall's actions. He was acting odd, something John couldn't quite put his finger on...

Marshall fidgeted with the tubes running along his arms, and finally said, "I really don't want to speak of it, Mr. Holmes."

"Well then, we'll never find out who did it," Sherlock replied shortly.

John looked at him, then gasped as he realized what was off. "Sherlock. We need to go."

"What? No." Sherlock tilted his head toward Marshall. "We need to talk to him." But at John's insistent look, he rose and followed the doctor from the room. "What is going on?" he demanded once the door was shut. "He is the only one who has actually seen the killer. He can tell us whether it was Keiran or not."

"Sherlock, He's got a -" John was cut off by the sound of a gun going off nearby. He grimaced and opened the door to see Marshall laying down with a hole in his head and a revolver in his hand. "Gun. He has a gun. I thought he was going to shoot you, I didn't even consider..."

"How in the -" SHerlock stared in confusion. "How do you have a gun in hospital?!" He was further prevented from speaking by an army of orderlies who stampeded by, entering the room, calling to each other, and checking Marshall for vital signs. Sherlock recovered and pushed his way through the melee, demanding, "Let me see the weapon- let me see the weapon!"

"Sherlock- Sherlock! Do you think Keiran-" He was cut off by authorities asking him to come with them. "I can't, you don't understand? I have to-"

Sherlock appeared at John's side in an instant. "This man is a patient himself, I'll take him back to his room." Sherlock grabbed John's arm and steered him away.

The police protested, "As a witness, you are under duress -"

"He wasn't a bloody witness, he was outside, now let us through," Sherlock said, and pushing John ahead of him, he muttered into his ear, "Baker Street."

John nodded as he went back into his room. He called for a nurse and asked for his clothes. A few minutes later, He was at 221b.

Sherlock was pacing the floor, his eyes squeezed shut, and the moment John came up the stairs he held up a hand. "Shut up," he snapped, and resumed his pacing.

John knew well enough to say nothing; he simply sat in his chair and listened to Sherlock speak.

"Marshall Lowe, listed as one of three contacts in the initial victim's phone, is not in his house the night of the suspected murder, no, we know that because Lestrade had the place locked down, and we were there. Moriarty shows up, talking to another man who clearly did not know him, or if he did, he did not know the real him, and your phone explodes." Sherlock grimaced. "Typical distraction. There was probably something in your phone that we needed that Moriarty did not want us to have, so I have been going over what I know of that in my head, and the only thing I can think of was the contact number of the boat upon which you found me when they were dragging the Thames, or the pictures of you with your girlfriend; the first is statistically more likely."

He paused for breath, but forged on. "I called the number, and there was no answer, the second time I called it rang busy, so I traced the number and found it to be someone with the user name of HandofSauron on Twitter, and he replies within five minutes of all posts by either Marshall Lowe or Sam Hartis, but not Keiran Conaway or Andrew Lewis. Hand maybe is a lead to the bodies that are found mutilated? Anyhow, this suggests he knows the first two, and has them on text alert. He clearly takes a keen interest in their goings ons, and I found a lot to indicate that he was part of the drug ring. Lingo, code, stuff I picked up with my old habit. Interestingly enough, he bought plane tickets to the cricket match one hour ago and is currently... en route to Dublin." He looked at John. "Fancy a trip?"

Just then, the door opened downstairs, and Sherlock cursed. "Mrs. Hudson and Keiran. Why can't there be more than one of me?"

John listened to all this and nodded occasionally, pretending he followed. At Sherlock's last remark, he walked to the door and spoke: "I'll hold them up and meet with you later, okay?"

"Brilliant." Sherlock struck his hands together, and clapped John on the shoulder, causing him to wince. "You be the other me - try to represent me accurately, you know, what-would-Sherlock-do and all that, though you probably won't do a very good job." Fishing in his pocket, he handed over the wallet. "Don't give it up for nothing. I'll text you when I've got there," and without another word, Sherlock spun and clattered down the steps.

John nodded as Ms. Hudson and Keiran walked in. "Hello there, Ms. Hudson. Anything I can help you with?"

Keiran stared out from under his moppet of strawberry hair. "Where's my wallet?" he muttered to John as soon as Mrs. Hudson's back was turned.

"I wouldn't know." He shrugged. "Sherlock probably took it."

Keiran narrowed his eyes. "Where's he, anyway? Is he bloody insane or summat?"

John snorted at the boy's reaction. "Yes he is, but that's a different question. The question right now is- Did you kill them?"

Mrs. Hudson was staring at the two as Keiran just rolled his eyes. "Oh my- Keiran? John! What's going on?" she gasped.

"Nothing, just go away," Keiran grumbled, and, eyes wide, Mrs- Hudson nodded and left the room in a hurry.

"So-" Keiran faced the ex-army doctor. "Be specific. Who's 'them?'"

"You know who. Andrew Lewis, All the others in your ring." John crossed his arms. "Did you?"

"And I supposed to talk about this now?" He exhaled through his slackened lips. "What if I don't want to?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Then I'll call the police and tell them that I have a murder suspect in my flat. I'm friends with the detective inspector. Don't try me."

Keiran shifted hesitantly. "Yeah, but the Yard needs evidence. What'll you show them?"

John shook his head. "Anything I can."

"Yeah, but I want specifics. I wanna know how serious you are." He crossed his arms over his narrow chest. "How serious?"

He laughed. "Do you honestly think I'm that thick?"

Keiran shrugged. "Maybe." Just then, Mrs. Hudson came back in and stopped short to see the two in such close conversation. "Am I interrupting something?" she asked decorously. "John?"

He turned and smiled at the old lady. "Nothing's wrong, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock just asked me to talk to Keiran about something."

"Ohh." She nodded. "Well, let me know if he's giving you any trouble." And she left the room.

"She's so crazy," Keiran complained. "I hate coming to stay with her, so I found other ways of amusing myself." He gestured toward John. "Like cricket and stuff. So you think I'm a murderer? I can't afford that. I'm broke, and they'd never let me off with just community service." His voice cracked, and John couldn't help but think Sherlock would make some sort of deduction from that...

"Keiran, how old are you?" John was curious, but that wasn't his reason for asking; if he was out of puberty, the voice crack could mean something...

"I'm fifteen, what's it to you?" Keiran said, glaring at the ex army-doctor. "It's not like I'm ten or anything."

"You look older." Of course, he could be lying...

"I'm not lying, ask my aunt," Keiran scowled, as if he could hear his thoughts. And then he made a swipe for John, trying to nab the wallet. "Give that back, or I'll report you for stealing."

"That doesn't sound like a very good idea, does it?" John asked.

"Give it back," Keiran growled, his pupils dilating. "It's mine, and it has stuff in it I need."

"Like false i.d.? Plane tickets? Diagrams?" Sherlock stood in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his long wool coat.

"He said you were gone. Bloody liar." Keiran aimed a kick toward the saggy chair John called his, and it shuddered in reproach.

"Hey. That is my chair, and I would prefer if you didn't kick it. Sherlock, what-"

"Shut up, John, don't state the obvious," Sherlock snapped, turning toward Keiran. "Now, may I just say that I am one keystroke away from phoning a close acquaintance of mine, one Detective Inspector Lestrade, so if that makes you any more eager to tell us what is going on, consider yourself sufficiently encouraged."

Keiran's eyes were wide. "I told you," he whispered. "I didn't kill him."

"But you know who did?"

Hesitantly, Keiran nodded. "But you can't arrest him now. He's dead."

John shook his head, not following. "Who was it?"

Keiran flickered a glance toward Sherlock. "He knows," he mumbled. Sherlock's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Really."

"Yeah, you do," Keiran retorted. "You blabbed it all at hospital. The stuff, the plans, the fake name... What're you gonna do to me? It's too big. Take me away and somebody else's gonna snatch the opportunity."

John cut in. "We can shut it all down."

"Watch your choice of words, John," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I wouldn't put it that way if I were you. Keiran Conaway -" Keiran stiffened at the mention of his name. "Allow me to introduce you to an - ahm... friend of mine." The door behind them opened, and Sally and Lestrade stood there.

"What's going on?" Sally began, looking from the kid to Sherlock, and back again. "Where's he gone?"

"Nowhere." Sherlock inclined his head toward the teen, who cursed, and made a break for it. Sherlock leapt for him, and the two tangled on the floor.

John, being the helpful friend he was, watched quietly. "Lestrade," he said, "This boy is Keiran, he's the one we called you about."

"Alright, then Keiran, I have to ask you to come with me." Nodding, the D.I. placed a heavy hand on Keiran's shoulder.

"Better tell my aunt," he murmured, and Sherlock took that as his cue, going to the open doorway and shouting down the stairs, "Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade is taking Keiran to the station now for interrogation. That's where to find him later if you're looking."

"You what?" Mrs. Hudson gasped, coming to the door and staring at the group. Keiran looked at the floor, and Sherlock shrugged. "John would have made it take so much longer, and been.. you know - _kind_."

"Sherlock, that's generally a good thing," John said as Lestrade led Keiran out to the squad car.

Sherlock ignored John, and followed the two down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk before 221B. Then he stopped short, staring at a figure across the street who grinned and waved.

"Who's- Sherlock, who is that?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock began to cross the street, oblivious to the passing traffic.

John followed after him, waving at the cars in apology. "Sherlock!"

Honking, a driver slammed on the brakes, and made an angry gesture. Sherlock waved him off as if he were a pesky fly, and reached the other side at a run, frantically searching for the figure who had become lost in the crowds of pedestrians. He cursed. "It was him," he muttered to John, who joined him, out of breath. "Moriarty."

Sherlock caught sight of a dark head in the crowd and started forward when his phone buzzed. "Keep your eyes on him," Sherlock ordered as he pulled his phone from his pocket, and read, DOES JOHN WATSON NEED A NEW PHONE NOW? SO SORRY ABOUT THAT. JM "He means to follow him," Sherlock murmured.

John and Sherlock walked for several hours behind Moriarty, eventually reaching a small house outside the city, behind a stand of scruffy trees.

"Sherlock," John whispered, nudging him and pointing to Moriarty, who had moved towards the doors.

Slipping his hand in his pocket, Sherlock texted Lestrade without looking, and readied it to send at a second's warning. "Fascinating..," Sherlock breathed.

"What do you think he's doing?"

"No idea..." Sherlock said, his breath making puffs of air in the cold night. "But we're going to find out." He stepped forward through the scrubby grass and winced as his foot encountered a twig; a snap pierced the night, and the shadowy figure turned, his hand on the latch of the rickety door.

"No use trying to hide, I know you're there!" the figure called out. "Come on," he said, trying to coax the two into the open.

"Well, it wasn't as if we could follow you this far without attracting notice," Sherlock said, stepping forward into the ring of light which flooded the area around the tiny shack when Moriarty flipped the switch.

"Care for some enlightenment?" Moriarty said coyly, giving a bizarre smile. "Come in. Sorry, no tea." Sherlock looked at John, his eyes light and unreadable.

"Sherlock, I think we should go. This might be the one thing that tells us what we need to know."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock hissed. Moriarty rapped cheerily on the door before easing it open a bit more. "Coming, boys?"

"He's probably associated with the gang we've been chasing. If we can pry information out of him, we may be able to get proof to have Keiran arrested and put in jail for good." He looked Sherlock dead in the eye. "You and I both know we don't have enough info to convince a judge he's guilty."

"One doesn't just 'pry information out of' this one," Sherlock said in a low voice. "And I already know that Keiran told the truth - he didn't do it."

"Well, fine, I'll just be inside whenever you make up your minds," Moriarty sang, and shut himself inside the hut.

John turned. "What are we going to do, Sherlock? And who _did_?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped. "I don't know," he added in a more reasonable tone of voice. "But I'm working on it." He took in his breath, settling his collar. "Right. Coming?"

John looked at him, silent for a moment before shaking his head and following. "Of course."

Crossing the small distance that separated them from the hut, Sherlock and John looked at each other briefly before Sherlock placed a gloved hand on the latch, and eased it open. John half expected him to shout "Vatican cameos!" and shove him aside, but he didn't and they walked quite calmly into the gloom.

Moriarty was silhouetted against the light of the opened door, but when Sherlock shut it, they were plunged into complete darkness, broken only by the tiny fingers of light that filtered through the cracks.

"What do you want," Sherlock said, his tone low and even. "Why have you brought us here?"

Moriarty's voice rang through the room in a chuckle. "Oh, Sherlock. What do I want?"

"Yes, that's what I said." Sherlock carefully guarded the irritation from his tone, and reached for the unsent text still in his pocket.

"I want to win, Sherlock. I want you to lose this game and fall further than ever before, so far that you can't ever climb back up and regain your glory. I want to break you. I want you to be miserable in your own mind, to understand the worst things that come from being human. I want you to suffer." Moriarty smiled. "And in the end I want you to come to me, crawling on your knees and begging me to stop."

"Stop what?" Sherlock stepped forward, and he could hear John take in his breath. "Stop playing hide and seek? Cluedo? Who wants to be a millionaire?" He lowered his voice. "I am on the scent, but I need to know one thing. Why? Simply put- why are you using these people? Its elaborate, even for you."

Moriarty laughed loudly. "Why? Because it's a game, of course! You say it yourself, the game is afoot!"


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh, it's more than that. You're gaining profit, exploiting this country. I only do it to keep myself sane!" Sherlock's voice escalated to a shout. "Why Keiran?" he demanded. "Why Keiran Conaway? Andrew Lewis? Sam Hartis? Marshall Lowe?"

Moriarty laughed again. "And they said you were smart!" He shook his had in the darkness. "I know about Keiran's connection to your little landlady."

"Yes, but it's something more. That man on the boat- the one who dragged the river. Who is he?" Sherlock had the flash of a thought go through his head- John was awfully quiet...

"Right about now, you're probably wondering where your friend is, but don't worry. He's perfectly fine, I just had him escorted to another room. I thought you might like to talk privately."

"Another room?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This place is tiny, there are no _other rooms_!" He hit send on the text within his pocket and took a step closer to Moriarty. Locking eyes with him, he called, "John?" No answer. Again: "John! Can you hear me?"

There was a muffled groan from below the floorboards- apparently, he had been moved into a lower level. "...Sherlock?"

"John-" Sherlock dropped to his knees, wildly clearing away the hastily-spread sod, and revealing a false floor beneath. He pressed his head against the wood, and called, "John, are you alright?"

Moriarty snickered. "You really do care about him, don't you..."

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped. "John... This is ridiculous," he muttered, standing and shouting, "THIS IS RIDICULOUS!" He stabbed a finger through the air, pointing downwards toward the wooden flooring. "How did he get down there? What more do you want with him?"

"Sherlock, you know what I want. You care about him, don't you? He's your friend."

"What- do- you- want?" Sherlock said through his teeth. "Of course I care about him. I don't understand."

"I want to ruin you. He's your_ only_ friend, am I right? What better way to break you?"

"I am not of the stuff that breaks," Sherlock said mildly. "And I didn't mean with John. Do you really have nothing better to do than puppeteering a ring of identity thieves? It seems... I don't know, a little-" he gestured, as if looking for the right word, "...Ordinary."

"Ordinary? You think... " Moriarty paused. "You haven't figured it out yet. Well that's a bit disappointing..."

"For you, yes," Sherlock mused. "A criminal always does love to get himself caught."

Just then the sound of a helicopter's blades slicing through the air was heard, beating the roof of the shed with the force of the windblast, and the bright lights of the whirling sirens were seen surrounding the place.

"Now, I'm sure you have a backup plan, so now would be the time to execute it," Sherlock said to Moriarty.

Moriarty smiled. "I'll give you a hint, Sherlock!" he yelled over the sound of the helicopter. "There's going to be quite the massacre tonight!" He smiled at Sherlock and then ran out of the room.

Sherlock cursed, then dropped to his knees and felt hurriedly around in the darkness until his hand encountered a latch. Tilting it and hauling upwards on the false floor, Sherlock called, "John, are you alright?"

Just then a gunshot split the night outside the shack. John gasped as the gun went off. "What happened?!"

"I don't know." Grabbing John's arms, Sherlock hauled him up to ground level, and muttered, "How on earth does this work, anyway? Entry from outside, maybe?" The gunshot, however, fascinated him more, so as John brushed himself off and stood on wavering legs, Sherlock charged outside and squinted into the glaring searchlights.

"John followed and was shocked by a thundering voice; Lestrade's, namely. "SHERLOCK, IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT!?"

"Does it look like everything is alright?" Sherlock shouted back. "Where has he gone? Where is he? Who fired that shot?!"

John looked at Sherlock, astounded. "Is Lestrade in a helicopter?"

Sherlock shielded his eyes from the intensity of the flashing lights, feeling another one of his headaches coming on. "Lestrade!" he shouted. "I asked for a little help, not the entire London police force! Did anyone see where that man went! DID ANYONE SEE?!"

Lestrade shouted out again: "My men thought he went north!"

"North..." Sherlock muttered. "Very helpful." And he simply began to walk back toward London, his coat flapping in the wind.

John, ever the faithful sidekick, followed without question. In a matter of half an hour or so, they were back within the city limits and Sherlock did not say a single word the entire time, except for to hail a cab and pay when they were dropped off at 221B.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

He gave an owlish blink, and seemed to remember at last that John was there. He took off his cost and hung it in the closet, slowly and deliberately. Then he turned to John. "Right. I suppose I should ask you how you are."

"Well, that would be the right thing to do, I suppose..."

"So-" Sherlock regarded John. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he had a friend."

Sherlock squinted. "A friend? What do you mean?"

"I could hear him talking to you, but somebody grabbed me at the same time. Somebody wiry."

Sherlock shook his head. "'Somebody grabbed me,'" he imitated, exhaling through his nose. "Really, John, you would be a dreadful witness in court. It's like your blog. 'Then we ran here!' and "Then we ran there!' No real _information_," he finished, glaring.

"It's hardly my fault! There were no lights!"

Sherlock held up his hands. "Never mind." He threw himself down onto the couch and did not move for a moment. Then he quickly kicked off his shoes, and then resumed his curled-up-in-a-ball position.

"Okay then." John closed the subject.

Sherlock did not move, but John could see from the rise and fall of his back that he was, in fact, breathing, which was good, all things considered. John shook his head and went to his room, then laid down and quickly fell asleep.

Sherlock heard John leave the room, but did not really concern himself with it. Instead, as soon as the door clicked shut behind his flatmate, he sat up, swinging his legs to the floor and opened his laptop, pouring over his case notes, one hand scrolling the screen, the other pressed to his brow as if he had a headache. Overarching concepts seemed to linger before his mind as a list: RELATIONS DEAD MANGLED HANDS TATTOO IDENTITY THEFT YACHT NUMBER DISCONTINUED APPENDECTOMY SCAR OTHERWISE WELL-PRESERVED RIGHT DOMINANCE CHANGED

His eyes widened, and he grabbed a piece of paper, beginning to scribble. "John!" he called. "John!"

John woke up suddenly and stumbled as quickly as he could out into the corridor. "What is it?"

Sherlock barely noticed the bleary eyes and rumpled hair of the other man as he shoved the piece of paper toward him. "Look!" he demanded. "Look at this! Don't you see? It was staring me right in the face."

John looked. "Sherlock, just tell me what it is."

"Look." Turning the paper back to face him, Sherlock quickly rewrote the notes. Now they read: MANGLED HANDS OTHERWISE WELL-PRESERVED RELATIONS DEAD IDENTITY THEFT APPENDECTOMY SCAR RIGHT DOMINANCE CHANGED TATTOO YACHT NUMBER DISCONTINUED "See?!" he practically shouted. "Staring us in the face!"

John stared in disbelief. "It isn't him."

"What?" Sherlock stared back.

"The victim, it wasn't who we thought it was. Is that it? Is that what you're trying to tell me?" John pointed at the paper. "Because that makes a little sense to me."

"Look at it!" Sherlock practically shouted. "It's right in front of you! Forget Keiran, he is just a teenager getting in with the wrong people. Look, John!" He grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

"I don't know, Sherlock! I'm not you, I'm not some genius!" John shook his head as Sherlock released him. "Explain."


	8. Chapter 8

"Read the first letter of each lead, for heaven's sakes!" Sherlock exclaimed, exhaling through his nose. "Spell it out," he mimicked. "Could it get any more obvious? Absolute proof of who is behind this."

John did as the detective asked, his eyes widening.

MANGLED HANDS

OTHERWISE WELL-PRESERVED

RELATIONS DEAD

IDENTITY THEFT

APPENDECTOMY SCAR

RIGHT DOMINANCE CHANGED

TATTOO

YACHT NUMBER DISCONTINUED

"Sherlock, I believe you. This can't be coincidental, but the police won't accept this as proof." He shook his head. "Maybe we should try to find him ourselves."

"I'm not going to the police!" Sherlock exclaimed. "We passed the extent of their skills on day one. We have to find him." He rose and started to pace. Mid-stride he stopped short, his vision wavering. "Bloody -" he began, but stopped short as his legs buckled.

John dove forward and grabbed him just in time to keep his head from hitting the ground. "Sherlock? What happened?" When he didn't answer, John raised him onto the couch and lifted his legs, placing several pillows underneath them. Sherlock's hands were cold, and his breathing deep and uneven.

A tap on the door sounded, and then it creaked open to reveal a familiar face. "Ooh, did that hurt?" the lilting Irish voice asked. "You two are so predictable. I always know where to find you."

John turned slowly. "Moriarty?"

He rolled his eyes. "I think we're probably on a first name basis by now. John." He winced, and peered at Sherlock, sprawled upon the sofa, saying "I'm surprised, I really am." He crossed the room, and in his signature bizarre style, took Sherlock's hand. "Poor, poor thing..." he murmured. "Out cold."

"How did you poison him?"

Moriarty peered at him, removing his hand from Sherlock's and putting it in his pocket for a brief moment. "Are you really a doctor, or do you just like the letters they put after your name when you write it?"

"Very funny. I didn't have time to examine him, and I'm not an idiot; I can't find the source now."

"Good luck looking," Moriarty said in a thin voice. "You'll have fun."

"I'm fairly sure that as soon as I turn around, you'll try to kill me. Why are you here, anyways? What do you get out of it?"

"Oh, gosh. If I wanted to kill you I would have done it already." He sighed gustily. "Dead people are no fun. Actually, I got what I was coming for." He grinned and reached into his pocket, holding up a tiny slide with release tape stuck to it. "Prints. See ya!"

John ran after Moriarty, who had disappeared through the door and down the stairs. He sighed when he realized that he wouldn't be able to catch up to him, then went back inside and began to examine Sherlock's body for a wound through which the poison could have been administered.

Sherlock stirred ever so slightly as his shirt was being unbuttoned, but his eyes did not open. His brows drew together and he inhaled deeply, but he gave no further signs of response.

John paused. "Sherlock put his hands... up to his mouth." He spoke aloud, attempting to emulate Sherlock's methods. "Come on," he thought, sticking his hands to his head. "Poison, obviously... administered by lacing it onto the door so it would get on his hands...? No no... Wait." He put his hands to his mouth... "What poisons leave no taste?" He squeezed his eyes shut. Just as suddenly, John's eyes shot open, and he ran into the kitchen, feverishly combining substances that would counteract the poison.

A pounding in his head and the sound of roaring in his ears made Sherlock come to. He opened his eyes to see through murky vision John bending over him. He was vaguely aware that most of his clothing was not on him... "What is going on?" he asked, his own voice loud in his ears.

"You were poisoned. Moriarty came in and took prints." John shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. "I tried to chase after him, but he got away."

Sherlock tried to swallow, but his mouth felt try, and he choked, sitting up ever so slightly. "He'll come back," he managed. "He always does." The cool air from the open door against his bare skin made him shiver.

"Are you okay? I had to unbutton your shirt while I was looking for a wound, by the way."

"I noticed," Sherlock said, looking slightly disturbed.

"Sorry I had to invade your personal space," John grumbled. "By the way, you were poisoned with thallium."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Fascinating..." he breathed, getting to his feet, and then swaying dangerously. "You say he got - my prints?" Sherlock managed, putting a hand to his head. "How?"

"While you were unconscious. He stole one of your slides."

"Well, if he is trying to steal my identity now, may I mention that it will be very dif -" Sherlock broke off, frowning, as Lestrade barged through the door which was left ajar after Moriarty's hasty exit. The DI stopped short, taking in the view of the half-dressed detective. "I- ehrm... Apologies..." he muttered, tugging his forelock. He shifted on his feet slightly. "Is everything alright?"

Sherlock got to his feet, his legs unsteady. "What do you want?" he said hospitably.

"I just thought I'd tell you - my men have taking Moriarty into custody. You told us to let him go the first time, but not now." He nodded at John. "Hello, John. Everything..." He gestured to John's concoction and the general destroyed state of thing. "...You alright?"

John sighed. "Yes. Sherlock was poisoned, but everything's okay now. You said you had taken him in?"

"Donovan and the squad are at the with him now. I've got to ask you to come in, though, Sherlock. We found prints on him, and they're definitely yours," Lestrade said, looking a little distraught.

John turned. "Sherlock," he said, aghast.

Lestrade sighed and pressed his lips together. "Evidence suggests you're in league with him," he said. Sherlock was staring as if thunderstruck.

"Greg, Moriarty _poisoned_ him." John was growing angry. After all that Sherlock had done for the police, and this was how they paid him back...?

Lestrade looked doubtful. "I believe it," he said. "I'll see what I can do."

"Wait." Sherlock grabbed his shirt and hurriedly buttoned it, calling after Lestrade. "I want to see him."

John followed after Sherlock. "What are you going to do?"

"See him, of course!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, grabbing his coat, and clattering down the stairs. Lestrade followed, giving John a helpless look.

John shook his head at the detective. "Just go with it."

"Right," Lestrade managed, and the threesome made their way, with all speed, toward the facility in which Moriarty was held.

Moriarty's face was pale, but contorted in a grin through the grating on his door. "Hello, again," he greeted. "Brought some friends, did you? How sweeeeet..."

John glared at him silently, waiting for Sherlock to speak.

"You know, this isn't the end, Sherlock..." Moriarty drawled, his eyes following in the wake of a pacing guard. "Not at all. Not by a far cry." His laugh echoed in the hollow of the room. "Hello, John." He grinned as if noticing him for the first time. "Have fun earlier? Little touch of drama..." he trailed off in chuckles.

John shook his head at him, more than slightly disgusted. "Sherlock, why are we here?"

"Because he is still alive, and can tell us things," Sherlock muttered. "Answer him. I want to observe." Sherlock stepped back just a little bit as Moriarty locked eyes with John.

"Oh, he's leaving you, Johnny boy," he crooned. "What'll you do..."

John shook his head at the criminal. "I'm going to do as he asks. And as for your earlier question, no, I did not, in fact, have fun."

"Awwww..." Moriarty thrust out his bottom lip. "What's it gonna take?"

Sherlock was observing the man closely as he talked with John.

"I don't know, not trying to murder my_ best friend_?" He shook his head. "That's one place to start."

"He's incorrigible." Moriarty raised his voice. "Did you hear that, Sherlock? He's incorrigible!"

"I heard you," Sherlock replied. "Now let me ask you something. Keiran Conaway. Did he kill Andrew? Sam? Marshall?"

Moriarty smiled and shook his head. "Why would I tell you?"

"A good reason would be I can get you out of here if you do. If not, I can leave you rot." Sherlock drew his face close to the bars.

Moriarty smiled again and took a step away from the bars. "Yes. He killed them."

Sherlock swallowed the shock he know Moriarty would have been delighted to see. "What on earth are _you_ doing, then?" Sherlock reached his hand in his pocket and stealthily texted John.

LIAR

Moriarty grinned wider than before, so wide that John was surprised when his face didn't split open, and replied quietly. "I'm setting the board, Sherlock."


	9. Chapter 9

"Indeed." His eyes not leaving Moriarty's face, Sherlock said, "John, I believe you just received a text."

John nodded and reached in his pocket, reading Sherlock's text. "Moriarty, why did you want to speak with me?"

"Because you're all fun and games!" He bounced on the balls of his feet. "Sherlock's more..." he rolled his eyes. "...intense."

John let out a short laugh despite himself. "That's true."

"We're out of time," muttered Sherlock, and as if on cue, the doors behind them opened, and Sally Donovan led a troop of security officers down the corridor. They had Keiran in custody. The boy twisted his arms in the grasp of the cuffs, but otherwise made no resistance as he was placed in the cell next to Moriarty. John stared at Sherlock.

Moriarty let out a laugh. "And now they have my knight. Your move, Sherlock."

"I believe that would be your king," Sherlock observed, looking up as Sally called his name.

"Mr. Holmes! What are you doing here?" She managed to make it sound like he had invaded somehow even though the prison was a publicly owned.  
"Catching up on my gossip," he replied, gesturing toward the still agape door to Keiran's cell. "May I?"

"Fine." Sally stepped aside, glaring at him. "But be quick."

Sherlock stepped inside the cell and Donovan clanged the metal door shut behind him. Keiran did not look up for a long moment, but when he did, his face was pale.

"You have to believe me, Mr. Holmes," he began in a whisper. "I didn't do this alone. I didn't do it on my own."

"Who else?" Sherlock asked curtly. "No point in lying now, I have three very good ideas as to who they are, I only want confirmation."

Keiran paled. "He's over there, the man... He said he would pay us."

Sherlock nodded. "I know. Has he? I suspect that had something to do with the identity theft; large amounts of untraced money being moved about between accounts would attract attention. We are finally getting somewhere. What can you tell me about the poisonings? The yachtsman?" His eyes were glowing as he stared at the boy.

Keiran nodded woodenly as Sherlock spoke. "He paid us while the money was being transferred. Took his slice and gave us ours... And I don't know. I can't remember, Oh gosh, why can't I remember?!"He slumped to his knees and began to cry softly. The teenager looked tiny, curled into a tight ball in the corner. Sherlock watched uncomfortably as the boy sobbed.

"I have reason to believe you were not in complete control of your faculties. It is something I have experienced," he said at last, not knowing if Keiran was listening or not. Oh, goodness. What would John say to do around someone crying? Sherlock furrowed his brow in though, and then patted him on the head awkwardly. "Could you just... stop that now. Yes. That's better. Did you hear me?"

Keiran sat there for a moment before looking up at him. "Mr. Holmes, I don't want to be in jail for... the rest of my life..."

"Nobody does," Sherlock retorted, going to the door and looking about for John. His questions were answered, and he didn't know what to do further with an emotional person.

John turned and looked at Sherlock. "What did he say?"

The detective gestured helplessly. "Get him to stop," he said, adding, "It's as I suspected."

John laughed and nodded, walking into Keiran's cell. "Keiran. I need you to stop now, okay?"

The boy looked up, and swabbed at his wet face, glaring through his tears. "Would you bloody leave me alone?" he growled, his voice cracking. "And somebody call my aunt."

Sherlock volunteered, pulling out his phone and speeddialing Mrs. Hudson. "Hello?" he said. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke, her voice shaky. "Sherlock, you tell me what is happening, right now."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I intended to." Sherlock stepped out into the corridor, the door clanging shut behind him. "I'm at the prison, Keiran is here. John is with him at the present."

"What is he doing to my nephew, Sherlock?" She sounded incredulous. She knew that John wouldn't hurt him, but fear was making her irrational.

"John is talking to him; boring stuff, keeping him company, I suppose." Sherlock blinked slowly. "But he's not a murderer, apparently."

"Of course John isn't a murderer."

Sherlock threw his hand in the air. "Keiran, I meant Keiran, of course! You'll be happy to hear it."

She almost burst into tears as she heard the news. "Oh thank God!" she whispered on her end of the phone.

"Well, you could thank me," Sherlock replied dryly. "I did prove it."

Mrs. Hudson just laughed indulgently at his remark. "Sherlock, you have no IDEA how much this means to me." She laughed again with relief before ending the call.

Sherlock held the phone to his ear a few moments longer before realizing she had hung up. "John?" he called. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, I believe so" John responded as he exited the cell. "Are we done here?"

Sherlock took one last look at Moriarty, grimacing behind bars, and nodded. "I believe so. Where to, John? Baker Street?"

John smiled. "I could use some rest."

Sherlock looked down at him. "Rest? What for?"

John looked at the detective, incredulous. "Well, I've got a long night ahead of me, what with typing this up on my blog!"

Sherlock laughed. "It's not over, you know."

"What do you mean?"

"You're never going to completely keep up on that blog of yours." Sherlock shoved open the door of the facility and waved down a passing cab, waiting for John to clamber in first.

John complied. "Sherlock, how did you know?"

Sherlock looked out the window. "Know what?"

"That he wasn't the culprit. I mean, I get the bit with Moriarty's name, but what made you suspect?"

Sherlock looked back at John. "Have you not been paying attention at all?" He exhaled. "Let me write this post for your blog. At least then it will make sense."

John sighed. "You can write a footnote."

The detective looked thoughtful for a moment. "It won't do to have the footnote longer than the actual blog post." Then he cracked a grin.

John laughed along as the cab rolled to a stop in front of 221b. "No, I don't suppose it would."

They alighted on the sidewalk, which was damp from the drizzle that was beginning to descend over the London evening, and then entered the flat. As the door shut upon the two, the knocker gave a weak little nudge at the wood, and hung crooked from its hinge.

FINIS


End file.
